


Sons Of Icarus

by GoldenHavoc



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Adopted Children, Adoptive Parent AU, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arson, Childhood Trauma, Crimes & Criminals, Fluff and Angst, Horror, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mystery, Orphanage, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Single Parent AU, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-16 14:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenHavoc/pseuds/GoldenHavoc
Summary: Sebastian knew the smell of fire better than most people.It was a sharp smell. A scent that sent tingling, cracking warmth into the coldest chasm and promised relief to the rawest stretch of land. It appeared as a torch, hailed as a symbol of hope held by the Statue of Liberty. It was a red-veined eye in the night that saw through the darkness and cast light into every forsaken corner. It was a promise for the future; an assurance of warmth, protection and guidance.Sebastian called it a beast. A coarse, greedy, gorging chimera that left nothing but bones and cries suffocated in thick smoke. He had met it in many forms, whether as the ember he flicked from the end of his cigarette, or as the jet of flame of a campfire that warmed his hands while his father searched for dead branches among the trees. As a child, it gave him safety. Now all he remembered was how it had opened its jaws to devour his Lily with neck and crop.The fire was not to be trusted. It was like the devil in whose lambent shadow one loved to depict him; beautiful, dangerous and deadly.The still-burning bowels of the building in front of him confirmed this. Yet it would be what had fled from it that was bound to change his fate.





	Sons Of Icarus

_Can’t be that hard,_ he had said. 

 _We’ll have them picked up in the twinkling of an eye_ , he had said.

 

Bullshit. Miserable, self-complacent bullshit shouting towards the sky. That’s what he had said. Two hours later and they had nothing. And he was left standing with empty hands and a heart unyielding. 

No trace of the children. No indication of their whereabouts. Only his own big mouth, the stale odor of single malt whiskey in the hollow of his sweat-gleaming neck and daring promises he wouldn't be able to keep. Sometimes he wondered when exactly this condition had infiltrated the framework of his life, and found home inside it. He never dared to wait for the answer. Either he was too afraid to, or he didn’t really care anymore.

A 2 AM moon, almost fully covered by the veil of neon blue clouds, sent its dull silver trickle of light onto Sebastian's stubbly chin and the glowing stalk of his cigarette. He held it wedged between his lips as he took a sharp turn into Ward Street. 

It was his third grit tonight. Following the scene at St. Mobius, he shouldn’t have felt the urge to light something that even marginally resembled the inferno there, nor should he inhale the nicotine like a third-year law student would have his overpriced bag of pot when hardly one hour ago groups of children the size of school classes had succumbed to the risk of smoke poisoning.

A grimace slated his face. He took one last deep inhale before he cranked down the side window and flicked the cigarette out onto the street.

He waited two minutes in total. Then his fingers itched like ants, and he looked for the pack in his breast pocket, pushed the lid up and ripped out a fourth one with his teeth. Without taking his eyes off the street that mocked him with its yawning emptiness, the fingers of his right hand rummaged in his jeans while his left held the steering wheel in position. He found the lighter at the end of the pocket seam and gave a grunt as he pulled it out and tore the fuse with his thumb. A jet of flame blazed hissing in the semi-darkness of the car. Two heartbeats later, a fresh path of poison rolled from Sebastian's lips, ploughing in sluggish turns between the seats. His head hurt, nervousness pounding through his veins like an angry drum; every fiber of his existence screamed either for caffeine or a blackout. He would have greeted both with the same degree of enthusiasm by now.

He braked at the intersection near Hemingway Plaza and scowled at the red ball of the traffic light, seeming to stare grimly out of the darkness. He realized too late he had no real reason to stop; at this time of night it was as busy in these districts as it was at Cedar Hill's snow-covered cemetery in January, after the Christmas greeters had done their duty and laid down bouquets of flowers to rot. From no side did he meet blinkers, bicycles, or pedestrians. The row houses stacked neatly next to each other on both sides of the road posed the only sign of life. Their windows had been made dark or impenetrable by blinds for a stranger’s penetrant eyes. No voice, no laughter, not even the gentle murmur of a talk show from early evening on repeat broke through the laggard air.A boring, quiet evening in Krimson City to die for.

Sebastian's fingers tapped the far too rapid rhythm of _Every Breath You Take_ on smooth-wrapped foam as his thoughts rested. He'd been a detective in this town long enough to know that whenever blue sirens entered its streets, the facade it dressed in so well gained fresh color and shine, and the peace shown polished to perfection.

He didn't know how or when it began (and not even the two-legged fossils he encountered in uniform or suits could ever answer his question), but over the decades, Krimson had developed into a wasp's nest for outlaws of all kinds, categories and ranks. Drug cartels, burglars on raids, murder, manslaughter, and blackmail behind closed doors — or in the form of a smug smile, being handed out with a pistol purchased from the black market on the ready — were only some of the procedures to date. Krimson was no Caracas, but it spared a considerable mountain of corpses every year. Murders, of which 54 percent were solved, seven percent went by the board, and the rest stored in cardboard boxes in the evidence room. By no means a balance that was allowed to stain itself with fame.

Sebastian's thoughts circulated around at least three larger clans which settled in nerve-racking proximity to each other. Over the years they had gained a certain renown in the district. Their specialty? Human trafficking. Since this branch was considered to be highly competitive like any other, the clans maintained a cultivated hostility towards each other, which had resulted in several fights on the open road, two rapes and one honor killing last year. The foundation of their hatred built on their financial competition and skin color. In Sebastian's case this made little difference; they were all dangerous in their own ways and did not shy away from torture, kidnapping or extortion in their business. And none of them liked to give up their prey once they counted it as such.

It didn’t mean Sebastian deemed himself an expert on the principles of human trafficking, but time and experience had taught him that virgins and children were regarded as particularly valuable commodities, and were sold at underground auctions to the highest bidder. To find acceptable specimen, the gangs sent their scouts out to roam the streets and playgrounds, shopping malls and hospitals during the day. At night, they were spending time at abandoned train stations, parks, and dark alleys. If only one of them got a look at the children before him or one of his colleagues did, they were gone and heaven alone knew where, if and how they would reappear. 

Sometimes they were found mutilated if they didn’t match the bidder‘s expectations, or proved infected, or too difficult. Others were fished stiff and blind out of the Elk River, their skin bluishly bloated from hours of aimless floating. 

Twice, fleshen remains, bloodless and organless, had been deposited on the steps of a church. As if that wasn't macabre enough, they had been tied in portions, small and handy as cocaine packs. Whatever sick joke one had suggested with that, it made no one laugh.

To find them in one piece, breathing yet traumatized beyond recognition, happened rarely. And then the Krimson Post wrote that they should consider themselves lucky they had been found alive at all, which was far less unusual; in Diaz's articles you had a hard time looking for compassion. 

Sebastian had seen photos, taken statements and read reports about possible rehabilitation. Beacon Mental Hospital was said to attempt new therapy methods for that matter and from what he heard, they stayed adamant in carrying them out to this very day. Since not a single person had ever returned from the hospital in good health, mentally nor physically, he often caught himself wishing they had died immediately instead, and felt guilty about this too — ...although a mere glance into blunt pupils and the forced jerk of tired mouths gave quite the idea it had happened already. A long, long time ago.

The traffic light turned green. Sebastian didn't move. Rolling his cigarette into the left corner of his mouth, he sucked in small puffs of smoke, ejecting them through his nose one by one. Only when a dull pain grazed his palm, he realized he had clenched his free hand to a fist, his short-bitten nails digging uneven crescents into trembling flesh. With an apathetic stare, he watched the veins on his wrist emerge under the pressure. He saw each pulse curve and spill back into the mantle of his skin. Up, down. Up, down. In the sparse light, the blood’s circulation reminded him of a haematome-blue canal system as it would’ve been found burbling in Krimson’s sewerage.

If he had opened it with a knife, life pouring free, he would have picked body parts swimming through the rivulets, small and delicate as figurines, with broken fingers and punched in noses and mauled eye-sockets. He was so irredeemably sure of it that for a blink alone, the contours of a face jammed to his palm from underneath. It was screaming with the hole of a mouth, but no sound came out.

Sebastian’s eyes widened, pupils expanding. He was shaking, sweating, and he didn’t realize it.

He felt the overwhelming urge to either deal a blow to his chin or sink this fist into his head of hair to hammer his whole stupid face into the dashboard. Again. Again. Until he broke his nasal bone or at least risked a concussion.

Something told him he deserved it, stronger than ever. Something always told him that and so much more for his everyday failures, the ruin of his past and body he could no one blame for but himself. Any apology uttered discarded to nothing since they didn’t hold any weight to ground him. All they did was open an ache as old as time.

Lifting his heavy head and squinting into the darkness, his blurred vision fell on a crosswalk, dimly alight with the shimmer of orange-red street lights. Every meter from there led further into Cossum Avenue and its bony oak trees dunked into a dense, surreal blackness and bottle splinters furnishing the curbstone. They would reflect like fake emeralds in the beam of his headlights soon as he drove close enough. Knowing this, somehow, made Sebastian even more furious than he already was.

It was ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous. He knew every tiny dirty spot of this shameful mark of a city like the back of his hand and yet he couldn't guess where three little runaways were heading to. They had taken the first chance offered and escaped from their specially-titled pit of hell, unaware of the arms in which hell was actually lurking. Sebastian wondered if the youngest of them even knew how to spell 'hell' correctly yet.

He bit down at the border between cork-colored filter and the white end piece of the rig. The sharp edge of his canine tooth stuck to it and ripped it open. The taste of tar and death washed into his mouth, drowned on his tongue and made it numb. He spat the mixture out on the gravel, together with the still burning cigarette, choking and cursing. Wiping his sleeve over his bitter lips, he continued to swear until the cough shook him to a halt.

It seemed to take eons till his lungs had calmed down halfway. Inhaling the oxygen pressed against the back of his seat, he stared straight ahead. He wasted precious time and he knew it. Every second tore itself off his neck like tape, taking sweat and skin particles with it.

He put his fist in front of his face. Carefully, finger for finger, he opened it and made an inarticulate sound as the nail of the last one divested a drop of blood. The tough, light liquid drifted down his palm, its shine ghostly on the grooves of his skin. Sebastian thought of plastic tubes and remained clueless why. He wiped it off his jeans and held the steering wheel tight with both hands. 

The moon had drifted completely behind the clouds, leaving the sky stoic and unasked-for. Apart from the sporadic light sources that engulfed him, **his surroundings encloaked in the thick musk of tragedy.**

In mind, Sebastian called himself to reason, eyes shut. What he wanted was a solution; what he needed was a plan. He would get neither one by sitting here and sinking into self-pity. He had manoeuvred himself into this cesspool of doom; it would be he who pulled himself up and back to its shore. And what he’d pull along with him would not be child corpses.

Two junctions ahead lay the Union Bridge; the greasy, overpriced, praised shopping mile of the city. With its length of 1.7 km, each column infiltrated by restaurants, various shops and the busily-frequented pub stamped out of the ground, it was considered a popular tourist trap and youth club. He had already driven there twice and had not seen anything that would have gained his memento, but perhaps this time was crowned with greater success. And even if not, there had to be a trace _somewhere_. It was unacceptable for three children to be swallowed up by the ground within two hours. As if they had been erased, gone; as if they had never existed in the first place.

(Boxes of unsolved cases piling up in the archives of KCPD headquarters.

Nameless faces, young, aghast, old enough to fear death.

It was likely. _Too_ likely. He swallowed the truth down like he had his first Jim Beam, and kept it there.)

Ignoring the traffic light which had jumped red a third time, he stepped on the gas pedal and raced with into the foreboding emptiness crouching in wait.

He might have taken his mouth too full and recognized the true seriousness of the situation too late because of his own carelessness, but he knew one thing: He had been given the chance to save one life, maybe more; and he would rather give himself the bullet than fail again.

He could always have himself beaten up for hospital later if necessary. He knew enough candidates who’d have been happy to see him spit blood for free.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello y'all :)
> 
> This AU (or UA, call it as you want, it's supposed to play in the Canon Universe) has been flaming (see what I did there?) in my mind for a durable amount of time now.  
> I've got a loose plan of it all coming together, characters, settings, timeline etc. yet might surprise myself and you with how upcoming events will play out in the end, and cater to new developements inside the plot.
> 
> Due to university and daily life challenges, updates will follow up on an erratic schedule. Still, I'll be happy to answer each comment granted to this story soon I have the time.
> 
> a lovely day, evening or night,
> 
> Trico


End file.
